


Hearth-Heart

by taichara



Category: Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23241196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taichara/pseuds/taichara
Summary: When wandering days need ended, and roots have been set down ...
Relationships: Kamyu | Camus/Niena | Nyna
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	Hearth-Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalloway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalloway/gifts).



A few years on, and the war's ravages were still being felt. Oh, sure, crops were planted and harvested without so much fear of being trampled under booted feet (or worse); communities had drawn themselves together, begun rebuilding, and the scars -- visible and otherwise, on people and on the land -- were beginning to fade. But folks were still wary of strangers. 

Even more so when strangers came riding in armed.

-*-

It was a village much like many others he'd traveled through; worn, battered around the edges, and filled with cautious crofters who drew their children away from the stranger on horseback as he rode slowly through the tiny market square. It hardly mattered that his lance was hooded and lashed to his saddlebags. They saw him for what he was, and they didn't trust him one whit. Not when this was his second ride through their square.

That didn't matter, though. What mattered was that this tiny village huddled on Macedon's border held -- he was certain -- his lost one. He'd _seen_ her, he knew he had; a flutter of palest tawny gold, walking towards the village edge in the early morning sun. Her hair. He knew that colour, knew that shine …

It'd taken the better part of the day to coax any sort of answer from the reticent villagers (the gods thank them, for wanting to protect her as one of their own), but now he knew. He _knew_. 

It had to be her.

_Gods, if you know mercy …_

Ignoring the stares, he rode to the village edge and the witch's cottage.

-*-

A knock on the door out of nowhere and Nyna nearly dropped the crock she was washing.

_Who …?_

It was late. The sun was dropping fast -- she'd lit her lamps -- and no one ever came to her door this late unless something truly dire happened. The last time, a young boy had been attacked by a starving dog … Nyna shook her head, and set the crock down on the table next to the basin. This was no time for woolgathering. A sweep of her arm as she made for the door -- and its slower, more insistent knock -- gathered up travel basket, knife, bindings and a cloak, just in case --

"I'm coming --"

\-- and a thousand wild dogs couldn't shock more than the sight on the other side.

"Nyna?"

It was him. It was _him_. She blinked, then actually scrubbed at her eyes with her free hand -- prompting a hoarse chuckle from her impossible visitor -- but the apparition standing in front of her remained solidly, obviously real. No matter how much that seemed, yes, impossible.

It was the scars that cut through the shock. Scars hidden by that wretched mask and unkempt hair, hair now -- oh, heart -- grown enough to need pinning back like those long lost days in Archenaea, scars that bisected a sandy brow and trickled down through his scalp like the ghosts of raindrops, pattering against his jaw, taking a nick from his ear. Those hid far more injury, Nyna was sure.

But there was no mask, this time; no misdirections, no little lies. Or so she hoped. He carried no insignia, no knighthood emblems or badges of loyalty …

"Nyna? May I …?"

Oh, the pain in those dark eyes, in that soft rumbled murmur. She tilted her head to meet those eyes --

"What shall I greet you by?"

His turn to blink. But only once.

"Camus. I will always be Camus.  
"And -- I am sorry, for --"

Basket, knife, cloak hit the floor in a tangle as she threw her arms around him.

-*-

"Will you stay?"

She was flushed; Camus could see the rosy tinge as plain as day from his perch on the opposite side of the heavy wooden workbench, dim lamps notwithstanding. She was flushed but she'd asked the question nonetheless and he -- he tilted his head just enough to avoid her gaze, toyed with a bit of waxy rind with the tip of a knife, and unobtrusively gnawed on his cheek. Of course she'd asked.

Of course he'd hoped to hear something -- but --

But could he? Was there a place for him even here in this small village? The place had done well by itself, certainly. The hasty evening meal Nyna drew together, murmuring apologies, had been nothing short of perfect in his mind -- rinded cheeses and the rest of the morning's bread brought by the miller's family, honey and butter and, to his surprise, jellied rose, and a shockingly rich soup from the kettle carefully tended on the hob -- and her small cottage was sturdy, warm, and as carefully maintained as the rest of the village looked from the outside. But … but. He set down the knife and the bit of wax and chose his words carefully.

"I … would like nothing more. If I tell truth, then that is the honest truth. There were debts that needed settled, before, and I -- could not let them be left to fester."

He didn't comment on how he'd not expected Nyna to have disappeared in the meantime. It wasn't important, now. Nyna watched him over her mug, intently. He drew another measured breath.

"The people of the village are very fond of you, Nyna. I saw it for myself -- they didn't want to tell me a single word. You have a place here. But, I …"

Could he admit it?

After everything that happened? The gods as witness, yes he could.

"I poured all that I am into learning how to fight. How to fight armies, armed knights, conquerors. I would stay, but I would not be a burden on these people. I would not be more of a burden on you than I already --"

"There's no one to fend off border bandits and field robbers."

Nyna's interruption left hm floundering and she was not about to let him recover, oh no. Reaching across the rough table of the workbench, she clenched his hand in hers.

"I might heal their wounds and nurse their hurts but if you stayed, there'd be _less_ of them. You could help these people. More than that, I --"

\-- she drew herself up a little straighter still --

"-- _I_ would make a place for you, something I should've done long ago. The wars are ended, Camus; my throne's long gone, and good riddance to it. Your vigil as a knight is over. This is a chance -- _the_ chance -- we never thought we'd live to see."

She wouldn't press further. He knew that; he knew that very well indeed.

She didn't have to.

With a twist of his twist he slipped her grip to clasp her hand in his own.

"I crossed the ocean twice to hope to see this. Hear this.  
"I am yours, and only yours, beloved."

Her own grip tightened.

"And I'll never let you go again."

His answer was swift as the wind.

"You will never need to."

Truly, there was nothing so perfect as the warmth of those lamps and the comforting hearth, and this?

This was, at last, home.


End file.
